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Broken Things and Dreams Rising |
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By Margo Perry
Because no faces were allowed, I had to measure his orgasmic ascendancy by gasps and by the urgency with which his fingers responded to his cock’s demands. The strokes had quickened, become short and rapid, and his cock head was glistening with anticipation.
This cyber affair had been going on for three months and I knew him better than he knew me, better than he knew himself.
I’d initiated it with an email, timed and sent while he was away from wife and home, at a political convention:
Hello Beautiful Man, I want you. Be ready to Skype at midnight. No faces allowed.
He’d responded, timid, but emotionally and sexually starving. He apologised for letting me see his face for a second, embarrassed that he was having trouble setting up Skype. I laughed to break the ice, before ordering him to strip with me.
His fetish for large breasts was in evidence from the start and I used it to seduce him, to make him masturbate for me. The second time we connected, I made him rub his finger over his dripping cockhead and suck pre-cum from his own fingers. I couldn’t see his face, but his hand shook, as it disappeared from view.
After that I felt like I owned him and we’d been connecting and becoming more dependent on each other once every week.
“Please, let me. I’m so ready.”
He was begging, so time was of the essence. If I didn’t respond, the orchestra would begin the finale without the chorus, without the power and exuberance a crescendo demanded.
“Please, show me.”
I imagined a head slightly thrown back, lips parted, hot breath panting. I slid one bra strap over my shoulder, propping the weight of my breasts with my arm, leaning into the lens as it captured my quivering cleavage. I smoothed the other strap down my arm, listening for the groan that soon came.
He slid down in his chair, his legs extended, his body stiffening in preparation for his glorious fall to passion’s death.
“Okay, baby?”
I reached behind myself and undid my bra’s clasp. My gigantic breasts were unleashed and fell down across my tight torso and onto my lap. His sounds were more animal than human. He was close to the edge.
I cradled both breasts in my arms, lifted them, rubbery nipples fully extended, areola - pebbled dusty brown circles - framing them perfectly. He moaned as I laid them to rest in my lap, like precious children. I adjusted the lens so he could see more of me, never my face, but lower, so he could see the dildo moving in and out of my pussy. Two fingers encouraged my swollen clit to feel more, to demand more from my big black rubbery lover.
“Yes, yes, yes,” he whispered.
I came, watching a volcano erupt and his seed spill over his hand and thighs.
We were both spent. I breathed in the pleasure of control.
“It’s time we met,” he said, surprising me, “in the flesh. I need you in the flesh.”
I was gobsmacked. This request was outside the rules, but compelling. I placed my dildo on a waiting towel, shut off the camera, and slipped into my robe. The depth of what I had allowed myself to feel unnerved me, robbed me of words.
He’d shut off his camera, so words were now all we had. It’s not that I didn’t want what he wanted, to feel the warmth of our touching skins, with every fibre of my being, but I was aware of dangers he knew nothing about.
“I must know your face. I want you to know mine. Come on J.”
So far, there’d been no names, just pure passion and necessary parts. He called me ‘J’ and I called him ‘T’. Our voices have been altered, but we’d shared salient facts.
“You’re married. I’m not. It’s a recipe for an old tired story,” I argued.
“I don’t care. I want them. I need to touch them, love them and suck your nipples. I need my cock to tell your pussy secrets that will make you come in many ways.”
“What about your wife?”
I sounded bitchy.
“Is this just a game to you? Are you afraid? Were you lying about what you’re feeling? I wasn’t. I must have more of you.”
And I wanted more of him. Much more, and in that moment, the forbidden became essential.
‘Yes’ is all I said.
“Where do you live?”
“Let’s meet on neutral territory,” I said. “I’ll email same time next week and we’ll make a plan.”
“Not next week. Tomorrow. Email me tomorrow and I’ll have something worked out.”
“Alright.” What have I agreed to? I’ve lost my ever loving mind.
I turned off my computer and lay down on the bed. I needed to think.
The house was quiet and I appreciated the aloneness. As an out of work actor, I’d taken a job as personal assistant to Francine Justice, the independently wealthy wife of our local Member of Parliament. My job description was to do whatever she didn’t want to do for herself: Make appointments, cancel appointments and make excuses … whatever. She was both generous and condescending, allowing me to dash out to auditions whenever my agent sent me, but always reminding me that while the theatre community had no use for me, she certainly did. She hugged me often, but her touch was distant and cold. I was an add-on in her life, a non-essential. She could simply afford me.
In the last year, there hadn’t been much work, three days as an extra on a film, to be exact. Maybe it was my bald head, five foot– ten inch height, overly large breasts, chocolate brown skin, or maybe, as Francine had suggested this morning, I just wasn’t good enough.
She’d followed that up with an invitation to spend the day with the girls, shopping and lunching, to lift my spirits. I declined. I wasn’t in the mood to spend the day feeling blessed by their company, declining to accept expensive gifts that I could never reciprocate and that held little meaning.
She’d bruised my ego, but not my soul. My acting teacher had warned me. I was talented, but far from mainstream which meant I’d probably not work much. Hence the job with Francine, a live-in position that saved me from paying rent.
Today, all I’d wanted was a day alone, my computer and him. Married or not, he was all I’d ever wanted in a man and he filled me with a passion that consumed me. My fingers had found my pussy again. I was feeling aroused. I remembered the day we started, like it was yesterday.
I’d been alone in the house, lying right here on this bed, watching a visiting actor being interviewed on television. He looked about thirty-two, around my age, with a resume large enough to depress me. I’d seen his play, didn’t think he was that good, and I was glad when he disappeared off the screen. And then T appeared with his shock of grey hair and blue, blue eyes. I hardly remember what he said during his interview, but he made me forget my upbringing, forget that I was shy and reticent, that I’d never run after a man.
I’d rushed to my computer to find what I needed to contact him and had sent that fateful email. Now, he was expecting to meet me. All he knew was that I was a brown girl with long emerald nails that longed to tease him.
I knew that he was a warm and powerful man with a breast fetish and a propensity for sexual submission. He’d shared that his wife demanded perfection in her husband and a marriage without flaws. She’d consider his urge to be submissive, like his breast fetish, to be serious imperfections.
“My wife believes that marriage is like a priceless vase, bought not only for its usefulness, but its beauty and status, an heirloom to be passed down through generations. Once scratched, it would lose its value. If broken, it would be rendered useless.”
“But, isn’t marriage a living changing thing, full of inconsistencies and growth? Isn’t it as imperfect and wonderful as the people involved?”
I’d raised my dildo to the camera, an ivory dildo, just like his skin. I’d caressed it, I’d tongued it. I put it in my mouth and gave it good, good head.
“If I did this to your cock, would it harm the vase?”
“Badly,” he’d said, stroking his cock through his slacks.
I’d focussed the lens on my pussy, opened the lips to expose how wet I was, how hungry. I’d fucked myself, shown him the glistening dildo, wet with pussy juice, and laughed as he scrambled to release his aroused cock and pleasure himself. I’d rocked my hips as the dildo entered me, in and out and all the way.
“If this was your cock fucking me, would it hurt the vase?”
“It would break it,” he’d panted, stroking his purple veined over-ready cock.
He’d come soon after that and so had I.
I went to bed that night thinking about broken things and dreams rising out of their many fragments.
Francine would be home soon. I pulled myself back to the present, grabbed a bottle of red polish and watched green turn to burnished brown. Emerald nails were just for him. When both hands were done, I applied a coat of nail polish dryer.
Right on cue, I heard the sound of giggles and car doors slamming. The limousine was dropping off Francine and soon I’d be admiring her purchases, helping her put them away. Tonight, she’d be attending a formal dinner with her husband. There’d surely be a new dress and shoes and a bag, fresh hair and make-up to match. She’d look fabulous, he’d look handsome and I’d hate the jealousy that was sure to wash over me.
The next few hours were frenzied and before I could catch my breath, he was home, they were dressed and Mr. and Mrs. Justice left for another night to remember. I had a long bath, poured myself a glass of wine and watched Scandal and then the news.
I was still awake when they came home. I couldn’t stop thinking about tomorrow and the plans T would have made. I didn’t know what they’d be, but I knew that my life would never be the same after them.
The next morning, I awoke to an email from my agent. He was sending me out to a commercial audition, a jeans spot for Moms and Tots. There was a part of me afraid of my face to face with T and that part took hold. My audition was at noon. I’d contact him before I left and cancel whatever plans he’d made.
Francine was leaving for the gym.
“Enjoy your weekend. Terence is away for a few days and I’ve made plans. Enjoy yourself and good luck with the commercial!”
“Thanks.”
And she was off.
I emailed T, telling him that something had come up. I wouldn’t be able to meet him today, but would be online for our weekly date.
His answer came back within seconds. He’d rented a cabana at an exclusive hotel, known for its discretion. He’d be there from noon on. If I didn’t show up, he’d accept that it was over and he’d never bother me again.
That was all.
I stared at his email in shock. He’d taken the wheel and we were careening down an erotic highway with no off ramps. I felt vaguely irritated and confused by the power shift, that he was issuing me an ultimatum. But in that moment, I understood that, while I was mistress of our erotic domain, in real time, we were equal and responsible partners. My new found ambivalence was unacceptable to him and the idea of losing him, losing us, was an emotional crash into an ocean that left me nauseous and trembling with fear.
I couldn’t, wouldn’t lose him, no matter what. But first, I had an audition to go to.
I dressed, as my agent had suggested, in tan jeans and a green t-shirt. I applied my emerald green nail polish, its first public appearance.
While the audition was the last thing on my mind, I danced, read lines and felt like I’d done well enough. The director seemed pleased.
Back home, I dressed in our favourite bra and panty set, emerald green to match the nails he’d soon feel inching along his thighs. I dabbed perfume in the cleavage he’d soon be loved in, smothered in, and wondered whether he’d ever smelled it, even in passing. My short skirted floral dress fell from my shoulders, exposing the decorated bra straps, accentuating the lift of my gigantic breasts. I wore a new pair of green strapped stiletto sandals to show off my legs. A pair of hanging earrings and a jauntily placed see-through wrap finished my ensemble. I was ready to go.
A limousine arrived just as I reached the end of the driveway and Francine jumped out. I shivered when she hugged me and almost died when she pushed me into the limo.
“You look great. Take her wherever she’s going and come back for me,” she told the driver. “I want to take a bath and change.”
She slammed the door shut.
I didn’t panic, as I recognized the driver as one of Francine’s regulars.
“I have a meeting,” I said, “Bungalow Four, Pageant Hills Hotel.”
I watched the driver leave before ringing the door bell. Power and fear fought for supremacy, as an erotic urgency pounded my heart and moistened my pussy. Through a glass panel I watched him approaching, silver hair shining, his blue eyes blazing. He could also see me.
He opened the door in a rush and stared. His cock was already tenting his pants.
“I saw Francine’s limo and driver. I thought …”
I held his eyes, demanding to be touched, needing to be touched, and he grabbed me.
“Jasmine, it’s you,” he breathed into my ear. “How often have I been aroused by your perfume, by your presence? I should have known.”
He drew me inside, and shut the door on everything, except our future
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